


Taking A Long Run

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Endings, Goodbyes, M/M, Nostalgia, White Hart Lane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: White Hart Lane is closing down, bringing winds of change and differing perspectives for everyone. Harry  Kane is focusing on the run into the end of the season, securing second place and saying goodbye to one of the few constants he’s ever known. Pochettino sees the closure of White Hart Lane as a beginning, an end and a warning. Dele and Eric aren’t afraid to want what they want.





	Taking A Long Run

“Seriously?” Eric dragged a palm down his face, shaking his head at the thought. “H, what-”

Harry rolled his shoulders, moved his arms. 

After six weeks away fighting to come back from injury, he stuck his foot out in front of him, like a cheerleader prepping for high kicks. Point, toe out. Flex, heel on the green carpet of the turf, palm spread against thigh, a gentle press to stretch the hamstrings. The warmth of the sun poured over his head and shoulders, making him sweat despite the light, liquid wicking properties of the fabric. 

He felt Pochettino’s eyes on him, the gaffer’s stare originating from the edge of the field, arms folded across his chest, features shadowed by the sun behind him. Everyone knew how Pochettino acted the face of a player’s injury. Respectful at turns, even cautious to a fault. 

Even with Harry being out of commission Pochettino didn’t rush him back. Although Harry was their top goal scorer, Pochettino kept his distance. Checked with the physios and varied personnel around him. Sent warm texts to his phone, but never to rush him back. 

“Why not?” Harry breathed, leaning into the stretch, revelling being back in action again. “Okay, we might not get out of the Champions’ League group into the quarters, but there’s Europa to be had.”

Eric’s eye roll was a thing of beauty, with that indignant huff only he could do. “Try telling Dele that,” he mumbled with a roll of his shoulder and a shake of his head. 

“Dele’s a sore loser,” Harry quipped, as he pushed off and eased into a jog, Eric in lock step with him. The pace enough for short conversations to be had in the warm ups, before kicking up several notches where you couldn’t think beyond taking the next breath. Yeah, he really missed the camaraderie on the field, especially this part of it. “You really shouldn’t encourage his sulks, you know.”

“He’s fine, he’s just getting used to disappointment,” Eric’s humdrum answer causing Harry no end of amusement. Eric sounded like a typical Spurs’ supporter. Even now, with three seasons of improvement under this gaffer, their supporters still didn’t trust, didn’t want to believe, borrowed trouble where they should have left it alone.

“Whatever happens, don’t let him get his own way,” Harry warned. Dele was a good lad, honestly, but at times, he had a temper darkly. 

“I... _don’t_.” 

Something in Eric’s voice snagged his attention, causing Harry to risk a glance in Eric’s direction. Eric stared ahead, shoulders moving, arms and feet running smoothly. 

Wait. 

Normally, Eric ran in shorts. That had always been a source of amusement for Harry because Eric trained in shorts no matter the weather or the temperature. But today, Eric had on jogging bottoms. 

With a number twenty instead of his customary fifteen. 

“You nicked Dele’s joggers?” Harry shook his head. “Bad form, you know Dele’s going to moan about the cold. On top of everything, he’ll be a misery guts for the rest of the week.”

“It’s fine.”

“You shouldn’t let him have his own way,” Harry repeated, feeling half foolish because Eric probably knew Dele’s moods better than everyone else. 

“It’s fine,” Eric shot Harry a grin. “Really.”

***

Before Harry stepped on the pitch to warm up, he raised his eyes to the sky, taken back at the sight before him. He paused in midstep, body moving to and fro as the other players brushed past him, clad in their long sleeved sky blue and cobalt coloured tops as they stepped on the field.

White Hart Lane, a part of the stadium ripped away, through the jagged edges, a glimpse of their future with stout concrete walls and cranes. Harry understood the concept of progress, didn’t he? That’s why he came up through the academy and took each loan spell as learning tool. Used it to sharpen his abilities to the best that they could be - until he made them better. 

This ground, a small pitch of green. Behind the boardings, the chairs forming a sea of blue. Quiet, but not in the hushed, accepting way of churches, but the jittery adrenaline expectation of stadiums. The air filled with anticipation and longing, a lull before people walked up the lane, chattering excitedly, their mood buoying by their excitement as they squeezed through the turnstiles. Ticket in hand as they found their favoured seat, their forms clad in the livery of the club.  
Faces hidden by Spurs’ baseball caps, necks warmed by the cockerel scarves. Old and young alike to cheer on in hope _always a hope_ for the best. This year would be our year, _We’re winning the League/We’re winning the League..._

With Chelsea being six points in the lead, they couldn’t promise their supporters Big Ears this year, but they could bloody well try. 

Wouldn’t it be buzzing to win the title? To mark the end of their stay at White Hart Lane with at least one trophy? To feel the weight of it in his grip? He could lift up twenty-five kilos easy, see his reflection distorted and laughing back at him as he swung the trophy over his head. _The Third Lion_.

He could... 

Slowly, Harry came back to himself, noting his teammates dotted around the field as they got ready to warm up before having to clear off for the opposing side to get their turn at a pregame warm up. Hugo already in the goal mouth with Toni and Michel and Pau. Taking turns as they kicked the ball to the various corners of the goal. A low and cunning spin by Pau just past the tips of Hugo’s gloves, to the top corner of the goal that Michel preferred. 

Jan, Toby and Mousa ribbing each other in Dutch, as they went through light sprints and jumps with Christian a little ways off, nodding with the small, secret smile he had. Taking the gentle teasing sent his way, and at times, giving as good as he got. Walks’s animated chatter to Tripps, Walks’ gold tooth gleaming in the light. 

Eric and Dele up next, lads already in the midst of stretches. Eric in the middle of his reverse lunge, left leg bent at the knee, mirroring Dele’s stance. Harry not near enough to hear their conversation, but near enough to hear Dele’s half snort of laughter before he covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes darting around for the gaffer. 

Not that Harry could blame him. Pochettino didn’t mind the odd laugh and jokes, but on match days he demanded - and expected- minimum laughter and maximum focus. 

Harry couldn’t see Eric’s face, what with Eric’s back to him, but Dele’s expression told a picture, as whatever Eric said, the comment hit home. 

The Lane. 

The pitch as rich and green as it had been in his dreams, growing up. To his now adult eyes, recognising the slight shabbiness of the ground with its small pitch. Near the pitch the hard dark blue seats where the supporters screamed and yelled for them to come on. The paint grubby and peeling from hands over the years. 

The stadium small, and loved. 

The chatter of ball boys amongst themselves as they slotted the corner flags up in place with the navy cockerel against the white background, their laughter ringing in his ears. The Lane, with its seats soon to be filled by the lungs and the soul of the ground - the fans. 

Oversized signage with quotes seared into his heart. 

_TO DARE IS TO DO; THE GAME IS ABOUT GLORY._

Already, the North Stand ripped away, and it still shocked the eye. 

Through the ugly, gaping zig zag of a space, new concrete stands loomed above the old. 

Tonnes of concrete and steel, and if you followed the steel lines, looked up, up, up into the sky, eyes squinting against the bright, the cranes caught your eye. Looming over the past and present and looking towards the future in the distance like stoic, distant sentinels; clad in the navy and white livery of the club, the cockerel standing proud on the ball.

Harry felt his blood quicken at the thought of their future drawing near. Each home game a countdown to the end, a love song to the old stadium giving way to the new _everything_. 

So why did progress feel like goodbye?

***

Danny’s breaths expelled in big, almost tearful sobs. Harry stood off to one side, observing in silence, Danny’s physio taking him through the movements on a machine with pulleys and elastics that reminded him of the rack he saw at Madame Tussauds once. They were in the part of the team gym designed for rehab. An open space that let the light in, uncluttered to the point of artful Zen.

“Annnd let’s take a break,” the physio said, looking at her watch. Dusky-skinned, hair up and away from her face in an inky bun, slight form clad in Tottenham togs. Danny pushed himself into a seating position, his legs swinging off and onto the mat. 

“Thanks, Ash,” Danny gritted through his teeth as she moved away, greeting Harry with a small smile as she left. 

“Twenty minutes,” Ash sang out as she moved to the door. 

“I’ll take that back then,” Danny groused, grabbing at the nearby towel from the side of the rack and mopping at his brow. 

Harry didn’t move, just yet. He’d been there, in Danny’s place before. When your body broke down, and you could do nothing but... will it to heal. Helped the process with diet and monitoring weight gain, and minimal movement. Then, when healed, you had to embrace the pain to coax your post injured and unconditioned body into coming back as good as before. 

Ankle, knee, hip... different parts of the body, but still the same language of pain that made your eyes tear. The echoes of ache that lingered, until it ebbed away just out of the corner of your synapses. 

“H,” Danny held out his hand in greeting. Unlike Dele or Sonny, Danny wasn’t one for the overly elaborate handshakes, so they did a modified high five. Pochettino demanded handshakes from everyone on first meeting, this just made it less... formal. 

“How’s it going?” Harry asked, going for casual rather than an overly bright tone. It was bad enough being injured and knowing you were injured without people trying to make you feel better about being injured. Just thinking about it made his head hurt, to be fair. 

“It goes,” Danny grimaced, rubbing at his beard. “Every time I think, ‘it’s getting better’, it then doesn’t you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his training joggers and rocked back on his heels. “I know.”

“It doesn’t help missing out on matches because I want to contribute.”

“You don’t have to rush back,” Harry soothed, “Ben is holding his own.”

“Yeah,” Danny sucked the spit from his teeth. “But I want to be out there, you know? I know Ben is good, but...” he stopped, bit his lips for a moment before asking the killer question: “Do you think we can win the league this year?”

Harry clenched his jaw. Mouth tight, he looked away from Danny, stared through the window and to the green training fields beyond. Inhaled, exhaled. Cleared the lump from his throat and finally answered. “Until it’s mathematically impossible, yeah, I can’t think about it any other way.”

***

Late spring mornings in May were a kind of magic.

The sun not as bright as that in Spain, nor the days as sweltering. Still, the English skies had its own kind of power, when the daylight streaked across the sky as if shot from a cannon; blasting splatters and streaks of blue across the blush of pink sky. 

By the canal walk, the inky black and tan dogs bounded ahead, freed from their leashes, noses down as they sniffed and snuffled at the stones and the hard ground. Their barks and growls cheerful but muffled, as if they knew people were still sleeping on the narrow boat semi trads moored along the canal. 

“Shh,” Eric pressed a finger against his lips, his dog leashes in the other hand, as they passed a low-lying narrowboat, its curtains were drawn against the light. “Remember, people live here.”

“As if they’d understand,” Dele teased, but not maliciously, because he too had a dog. 

Well, sort of. 

Although his dog tended to be more of a night owl and preferred being with other members of his family, because football kept Dele busy, and dogs needed looking after. On second thought, his dog tended to have cat-like tendencies, to the point of being aloof from other dogs. 

“They do,” Eric replied testily, before crooning at the dogs in Portuguese, which Dele knew to be along the lines of _Good boy, don’t listen to what that terrible person has to say, because he doesn’t know you like I do. Because you’re so smart! Of course you are_. Not because Dele knew Portuguese, mind, but because he knew besotted dog owners who were mental. Like half of his teammates. 

Dele yanked his snapback hard on his head, puffed out his cheeks. Although the morning was lovely, at times when the breeze came up, it brought the chill. He really wasn’t a morning person at all; but with the season winding down, and everything off the field winding up, early mornings seemed the best way to get caught up with everything else. 

A short, sharp whistle tumbled him out of his thoughts.

Eric’s fingers now out of his mouth as he pointed left on towards a knoll. “ _Acima!_ ”

Well trained, the dogs veered left and sprinted up the short sharp distance. Dele broke off and ran after them, enjoying the moment. Pressing his snapback to his head with one hand. 

For a short time, while he’d played football in the youth leagues, track and field had been an enjoyable side sport. A simple joy in the moment when you hit your stride, arms pumping, legs eating up the ground underneath you as you pulled away from your competition towards the finish line, an ever-shortening distance. Your body responding to thought, the sensation of the wind tugging at your face and limbs, wanting to slow you down, and only you could decelerate - if you wanted to. 

Like now, their finish line a small recreational field. Feint football chalky markings in the grass.The dogs a blur of black and tan as they tumbled and rolled over in the grass, their barking a bit louder, and a lot happier. 

“Hey, wait- up.” Eric puffed between breaths, his face rosy from the effort. “If I’d known you were going to tear away with that lot, I’d have put a leash on you.”

“Ha,” Dele laughed as he jogged over and stopped in front of Eric, jogging in place. Eric’s light eyes peering at him under the brim of his beanie. “I’d like to see you try.”

The curl of Eric’s smile hinted at mischief and daring. “Probably, I will, Dellboy,” the tone light, considering. “We’ll see.”

Although his watch it said early o'clock (any time before 9:00 am was early in his eyes), the daylight made it clear enough for the odd dog walker to be seen in the distance. Beyond the field, a fence far enough for it to be toylike to the eye, and beyond the fence, smart houses and high-rise buildings in the distance looking like distant dreams. 

“White Hart Lane,” Eric said when they were seated on the wooden bench. On the armrest, Dele read the dedication on a plaque dedicated to someone who used to walk here before they passed on. IN MEMORY OF DOUG JONES WHO SPENT MANY A TIME HERE WITH ELLIE AND THE DOGS 1930-2006. 

“End of an era.”

“Oh?” Dele came back into himself, for a split second wondering if Eric had known this Doug Jones, but quickly realised what Eric was on about. 

“Yeah,” Dele looked ahead, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers lightly laced together. “Walks, eh?”

“People come and people go,” Eric drawled, his legs stretched out before him, his beanie now off his head, and in his hands. “ _This is football_ as the gaffer says.”

“I know,” Dele lifted his head, turned to stare at Eric. Eric’s hair now standing up in tufts, and in the sunlight, it took on the colour of the haystacks you’d see on the fields in late July. Eric’s hair shades of brown and strawberry blonde in the early light of the morning. His eyebrows and scruff a little darker. 

Today, away from Spurs, Eric decided to go incognito in black; hoodie, jeans and sneakers. His beanie -now in a death grip in his fingers- the same inky colour. 

“I do, I remember at MK Dons, we had loan players drifting in and out from the bigger clubs, it happens,” he thumbed at the ring on his index finger. “You moved countries to be here.”

“Yeah,” Eric answered, his eyes following his dogs as they loped along and through the bushes, making that weird, thready, high pitched whine dogs tended to make when they were into something good. “It happens. Everything moves on, even White Hart Lane.”

Dele worried his lower lip with his teeth. “I know, but goodbyes are gash, aren’t they? It will be weird without Walks - if he goes- because he’s been here a long time, seeing Tottenham moving from what they were to now.”

“But Tottenham have had a history of it,” Eric yawned behind his fist, sand coloured lashes fluttering against his cheek for a moment. 

“Hmmm.” 

Eric’s dogs - Dele could never remember their names- it wasn’t as if he didn’t like them, nor them him. It was just a blind spot, like him forgetting the difference between _estar_ and _ser_ conjugations in his Spanish lessons (both still meant _to be_ right so why the difference?). 

The dogs didn’t hold it against him when he called them _Juan_ and _Two_ although Eric did, because of that besotted dog ownership thing again. 

Juan - the black lab- shot out of the low lying bushes first, arrowing in their direction. No, wait- whizzing by the bench they sat on. 

“Uh oh,” Eric sprang to his feet, as Two came up the rear, ears pinned back against his boxy head, feet and form a tan blur. 

“Uh oh?” Dele repeated as he shifted to his feet quickly.

“Yeah,” Eric ran off after them, with Dele hot on his heels. Both of them frantically calling and whistling at them to heel. “Rabbits.”

***

Getting Eric’s dogs to heel came after a trek through mud and being stung by nettles, with Eric calling and whistling to the point of barely concealed agitation. Dele getting pawprints on his track bottoms as he wrestled with a wriggling lab to pin his leash on his collar, and somehow, getting his cap knocked off in the process and hot, noxious smelling wind in his direction from the dog’s rear end.

“Your dog farted in my face,” he choked, frantically fanning the scent away from his nose, feeling his eyes burn. 

Eric huffed out a laugh, “Well, that’s something.”

“ _Down_ , boy,” Dele pushed at Two’s haunches. Although Eric had said his name but, whoops, went out his head again. Honestly. Then again, why learn the name of a dog who possessed the stinkiest farts in the universe?

“In,” Eric gestured to the back of his Land Rover, the boot now open, with a pile of blankets for the dogs to roll around in, the idea that by the time they got home, half of the muck and mud they splashed and snuffled through would be on the blankets. 

Dele looked at the caked mud on his jogging bottoms and shoes, with the half-formed paw prints across his new trainers. Felt his eye twitch. If only he were so lucky.

***

Dele sat on the steps at the back of Eric’s home, a cup of tea warming his hands, looking out at the postage stamp size of the garden. In the shadows of the corner of the garden, under the woody rhododendron shrubs, Juan and Two curled up in the shadows, their bodies half covered by fallen leaves.

Half in thought about everything and nothing at all, Dele sipped at the hot liquid, wrinkling at his nose at the taste. Oh yeah, Eric didn’t do tea like the English did. Instead of milky and strong enough for a spoon to stand up and walk, this offering was a bit more... continental. 

Just tea stepped in hot water, with the sharpness of lemon. 

Sliding his gaze to Eric, now dropping on the step beside him, a cup of tea in his hand. 

“All right?” 

“You’re a bloody troll, mate,” Dele shook his head, as he raised the cup with the offending liquid. “Lemon and no sugar, really?”

“There’s a teaspoon of sugar,” Eric defended himself before slurping at his own mug of tea. “Your pancreas will thank me.”

Too lazy to get up and make himself a new cuppa, and actually feeling comfortable where he sat, Dele kept on sipping at his tea. 

London waking up now, the streets filled with the sounds of a busy metropolis. 

Humming engines, the _whrr_ of wheels on asphalt, shouts of cyclists over the chime of the bells as they shouted at pedestrians to get out of the way. Dele didn’t need x-ray vision to look through the stout fence to know the almost carnage that existed on the other side of wall. The noises that coloured the air told enough of a story. 

London, Dele shook his head. A city that intimidated and made you angry at times. It half surprised you with its acceptance and familiarity when it seeped into your blood after holding you at a distance for a time. He didn’t even need double glazing windows to sleep through the constant noise anymore. 

The day brighter, the warmth not insufferable. Eric a solid presence beside him, their thighs almost touching. Eric’s profile comforting and familiar, eyes half closed as he sipped at his mug decorated with dancing dogs. 

Dele took a generous sip of tea, filling his cheeks with it, feeling and tasting the mass of liquid as it swirled around his mouth. The tang of tannin in the tea, the sharpness of lemon. 

Ugh, sugar might have been a placebo at this point, he thought as he swallowed the liquid, making a face. 

“It’s minging.”

“Rude,” Eric tittered with a frown. 

“I want us to win,” Dele said, apropos of nothing, tilting the cup to and fro in his hand, looking at the remaining dark liquid sloshing along the walls of the cup. “It will be wank if Chelsea nicks it.”

“Blue is becoming my most hated colour,” Eric agreed, leaning over to place the cup at the space beside his shoe. “Excluding Navy, of course.”

“Of course,” Dele sighed audibly, stewing in his own thoughts, finding himself jolted out of them as he felt the sharp jounce of Eric’s shoulder slamming against his. 

“ _Oi_ !”

“You’re being maudy,” Eric’s smile crooked and warmly affectionate. “That’s my job,” he laughed, jerking his thumb towards his torso. 

“I’m not,” Dele responded automatically, although he knew he was, really. “It’s just your crap tea, ‘s all. No sugar.” 

“One teaspoon.”

Dele huffed, ready to nurse this irritation into something bigger, darker. 

“ _Dele_ -” Eric’s tone a pin prick to the ballooning of his annoyance. 

“You know what football is like,” Dele shifted, resting his elbows on his knees, his mug dangling from the tips of his fingers. “People move on. There’s only a certain amount of time you can -” Dele stopped. 

“Go on.”

“Wait, that’s not what I wanted to say. It came out wrong.”

“Well,” Eric frowned, a vertical line appearing between his brows. “Say it right then.”

“I want to win something now, before we break up before we move on. I don’t want to be part of ‘the best team that never won anything.’”

It was weird, how despite the noise of London nearby, and the snuffling sounds of the dogs as they woofed softly and their feet twitched at things in their mid-morning slumber, how painfully quiet things could get, like the stony silence that fell between them now. 

“You’re thinking about leaving?”

Dele put down his cup, turned fully to face his friend. “No. I like the manager, I like the club, I’m comfortable where we’re going.”

“For now.”

“Yeah,” Dele answered, his voice sharp at the edges. “For now. Don’t act as if you’re any better because you’re not.”

Eric’s mouth in a thin line, as he pushed himself to his feet. “Are you finished with your tea, then?”

“Yeah.” The tea was cold now, and while it was bearable when hot, he wasn’t interested to see how it tasted like cold. “I’m done.”

“Would you like anymore?” Eric asked like a good host, his features and voice now cool with that politeness only he could do. Dele knew Eric long enough to know that he was mad, and a bit hurt. 

“No, I’m fine. Eric-”

“I’ll wash these up then.”

“I-” Dele scrambled to his feet, trying to reach out to Eric, drawing his hand back as Eric smoothly avoided him, and walked into the house, gently shutting the door behind him. 

_Well, fuck_.

***

The atmosphere in the away dressing room had the heavy gloom of mourning. The intense sort of grief reserved for lost loves and lost opportunities. The kind of gloom that rendered you numb; unable to do anything beyond the perfunctory, be it the drag of slides against the floor, and no noise but the rustle of clothes against bodies, or the involuntary sniffles and muffled apologies as people bumped into each other. Eyes downcast, because you didn’t want to see the anguish on your teammate’s faces, knowing that it mirrored your own. Harry had seen enough heartbreak in faces last year.

Harry sat down on the low bench, his eyes fixed on the concrete floor, staring at nothing. The scoreboard image hovering in front of his eyes like a nightmare.

 **West Ham 1- 0 Tottenham Hotspur**.

Football, for all its complicated sideshows and overladen sports metaphors, was a cruel game, vicious in its stunning simplicity. It came down to basic arithmetic at the end of the day; the team who had the most points won. Spurs didn’t even register a point tonight, and in that moment, Chelsea went from a three point to a six-point lead. Win their match on Monday (and they would, the jammy lot), and ---

He swallowed heavily, still staring at the floor. 

Heard the tread of Pochettino, saw his black trainers with the Under Armour logo at the edge of his eye line. 

“Well,” Pochettino breathed, the word a statement, a summation. A dose of cold and unpleasant reality, like a toenail in oatmeal. 

The rest of the team in varying stages of undress and Harry wanted to avoid their faces. But he couldn’t, not with Jan rapidly blinking and turning away. 

Jesús sidled to Pochettino’s side, hand over his mouth. Pochettino leant over, his ear near Jesús’ hand, nodding rapidly. _Vale, vale, vale_ , he repeated, waving Jesús away. _Pronto, pronto_. 

With a nod and a small sympathetic shake of his head at his boss, Jesús exited the room. 

“I’m sorry to ask for this favour,” Pochettino made a face, palms facing open in supplication. “I need one of you to do the press.”

The silence deafening, to the point where Harry swore he heard the cheers of the West Ham players from their changing room threading into their away space. Each triumphant shout a mockery, another handful of salt smeared in the wound. He raised his eyes, saw Hugo and Jan share a look, before shaking their heads. Everyone else looking down and away, absorbed with looking at their various bits of kit and shoes. 

Pochettino pointedly glanced at his oversized watch on his wrist, eyebrows raised as he waited for an answer. 

“I’ll do it.”

The entire room looked in the direction of the voice, Harry included, not surprised when his eyes fell on Eric. Eric, still in his grass-stained kit, his shoes still on. Eric, his eyes a hint of red from holding his tears back. For the second time, the title snatched from their grasp, because- and Harry shut off that thought, clenched his fists against his thighs. 

“If you’re sure?” Pochettino asked, and Eric nodded, wiping at his scrubbed face, his cheeks flushed with emotion. 

“Okay,” Pochettino said, with a curt nod. He wasn’t one to refuse volunteers. “They need you outside in the next five minutes. After me.”

“Yeah,” Eric ran his fingers through his hair, his mouth tugging into something too rueful to be called a smile as he caught Harry’s gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

“Eric-”

Eric turned in the direction of the voice, and Harry’s eyes followed Eric. Dele clad in his undershirt, a towel slung around his shoulders. The look shared between them electric and fleeting before Eric shook his head and shuffled off, leaving Dele in the centre of the room. Harry shook his head, unable to come to terms with the loss at the moment, exhaled audibly. He tried to smile at Dele, felt his face unable to respond.

***

“Eric, wait,” Dele hissed as soon as he hopped out of the team coach. Late after the game, the atmosphere in the coach subdued, Dele speaking with Ben but not really saying anything, his eyes trained on Eric who had his headphones on, his head turned away from the inside of the bus looking outside for the half hour journey.

As if he hadn’t heard him, Dele thought darkly, as Eric didn’t break stride, making a beeline to his vehicle, a shadow beyond the lights in the carpark. At the end of the match, they didn’t have to stay behind to hear whatever Pochettino had to say. 

Pochettino gave them permission to scatter to their own homes as soon as their coach stopped in the carpark, everyone trudging off the coach before drifting towards their vehicles in quiet, only lifting their voices and hands in half-hearted waves to tell each other _goodbye_ or _until tomorrow_. 

Dele tarried behind to give Hugo a brief, tight hug because he didn't trust himself to speak. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words around the lump in his throat. Hugo only patted his shoulder, his mouth in a tight line, as he gave Dele a brief nod and wished him goodnight. “You might want to look to Eric, _non_?” Hugo waved Dele’s attentions away. “I’ll be fine.”

Dele nodded. “See you tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder as he broke into a canter, pulling up to Eric, the light hitting the fob in his hand.  
The heavy _clunk_ of the car mechanism unlocking itself gave the hint to Eric’s intentions. Dele closed the distance between them, resting his fingers against Eric’s forearm, only to take a step back as Eric wheeled away. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Eric hissed, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright with an emotion Dele couldn’t place. After training, they didn’t have to wear the team gear home, Eric in street clothes, oversized black jumper and jeans. 

“Eric-”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it,” Eric cut in, voice filled with venom, barrelling on as if Dele hadn’t opened his mouth at all. “That twice in just as many years, I’ve had to go out there and admit we weren’t good enough. _Again_.” Eric pressed his lips together in a thin line, turning his face away from Dele to the window of the driver’s seat of his vehicle. 

“I would ha-”

“No, Dele, you wouldn’t.”

Stung, Dele said nothing, his fingers tugging at the strap of his utility backpack. 

“That’s not -”

“ _Fair?_ ” Eric laughed, the edges brittle and sharp. “Football isn’t fair, Dele, I thought you knew that. You know, it’s really hard doing this, another season of being ‘nearly men’, and you’d think it would-” his voice wobbled, stopped. 

“We can win it next year,” Dele said desperately. “Last season we came third, this season, we’re on track for second. If we hang on who knows next year ...” Dele’s voice trailed off, as he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Next year,” he finished. 

Eric closed the space between them, his stare fierce and unyielding. “We don’t know, do we?”

“Going to Man City or Man United to win things isn’t a sure thing,” Dele tightened his fingers around the strap of his bag. “At least, not like it used to be. Eric-”

“What do you see yourself doing in five years time?”

“Who are you, my head teacher?”

“Dele-” 

“Winning trophies,” Dele replied without hesitation, without shame. “Domestic cups, leagues, the lot.”

Eric stopped, stiffened as if he’d been hit. Nodded to himself as if he just understood the answer to a question Dele hadn’t even known he’d been asked. “Of course, you want to see where your talent takes you.”

“It’s worked for you so far,” Dele quipped. “It got you here, didn’t it?”

As soon as the words hit the air and ran into a wall of stony silence, Dele realised he’d said something wrong. Again. Before he could set it to rights, Eric stepped away, fingers on the handle of his vehicle pulling the door open. 

“Eric-”

“‘Night, Dele.”

“But, I-”

Eric scrambled into his vehicle and pulled the door shut. His window down, his eyes on Dele. For a minute, they looked at each other, the air between them still; filled with the regrets of the evening, with a tinge of something else Dele couldn’t put his finger on when Eric broke the lull between them. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said over the engine roaring into life, before driving away, leaving Dele on the tarmac.

“Hey,” and that was Harry, strolling towards his MPV in the near distance, his blonde hair limed by the lights. “Is everything okay, mate? Do you need a lift home?”

“Yeah, everything’s safe,” Dele tore his eyes away from Eric’s vehicle, and turned to Harry, before shaking his head. “No, it’s not okay, we were-”

Harry shook his head. “Don’t do it to yourself, Dele, it never ends well. Do you need a lift?”

“No,” Dele waved it off, as he started to trudge towards his own car, mad at himself for everything he did tonight. “I’ll be fine.”

***

Three sharp blasts of the whistle and Mauricio Pochettino closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t have to look at the scoreboard to know the score.

Tottenham Hotspur 2- 1 Manchester United. 

Mauricio opened his eyes, for a split second, half surprised to see Jose facing him, his arms outstretched. 

“Jose,” Mauricio’s greeting as solemn as the expression on his friend’s face, looking for all like two philosophers at a carnival. The sea of flags of navy blue and white frothed and trembled like the waves of an ocean, the accompanying songs and noise making the din of noise close to overwhelming. 

“Good game,” Jose whispered in his ear as they embraced in the bubble of relative quiet between them, away from the commotion that seethed and roared around them, Jose’s voice at his ear. “A hug for before the game, and a hug for after the game.”

“Good luck in the final,” Mauricio pressed his face against Jose’s cheek, wincing with jealousy at the thought of being in a major European final with an eye to winning a major European cup. Knowing Mourinho’s record when it came to finals, Mauricio would have bet his house on Mourinho winning, and so sure he was about that, he finished with, “ We’ll see you in the Champions’ League group stages.”

“We will see,” Jose answered with a half smile, ever cautious, because football was a capricious business, as they both knew. “But I am always thankful for your good wishes.”

“Jose.”

“Mauricio.”

Another tight pulse of an embrace, before they broke away. Jose Mourinho savvy enough to realise that the celebrations around White Hart Lane weren't for him to intrude on. With a warmer smile towards Toni, Micki and Jesús, he exchanged hugs with them before he and his own coaching cohort disappeared into the tunnel, leading them away from the field of play. 

Putting Jose’s face out of his mind, Mauricio knew his obligation to the hordes of supporters both in the stadium and outside. He stepped onto the field, turned to the crowd and _waved_ , found himself wrapped up in the nearly palpable warmth in the frenetic din of the mob of supporters. 

Mauricio’s smile tinged with sadness as he heard his song being sung with gusto: _Oh, oh-oh he’s magic, you know... Mauricio Pochettino!_

In his heart of hearts, he knew he wasn’t worthy of such warmth. Another year ending and Spurs had yielded no trophies.

***

Rain pummelled from the heavens.

Living in England, one became accustomed to the rain. Never mind that the day started with bright intent, the sun high enough for shadows to be short on the pitch, bright enough for the white of Tottenham Hotspur’s jerseys to be dazzling, like swans against a carpet of green fighting against Manchester United in their iconic blood-red livery, winning almost every single battle on pitch with grim and ill-tempered intent. 

The sun gradually hiding away, tugging the clouds around its form like a shroud, unable to bear witness of saying goodbye to the ground before the bulldozers came in. 

Sustained rain from the sky, as the Lane set the scenes for the finale, invited past players and managers to stride on the pitch one last time, to say their respects and goodbye to the lane. Ardiles, Villa, Ginola, King... the names didn’t thrill him, like it did young Harry, face glowing as they stood to form a queue in the tunnel, waiting for the signal to be lead out. But as custodian of the club, Pochettino understood and respected the ritual. 

Turned his face briefly towards the sky, feeling the wet on his face, and accepted it as a kind of blessing, because he was spiritual enough to know how these things mattered. He the last team coach, leading the last team to play on the pitch. Not an ending, but the end of a beginning. The English, with all their shortcomings and faults, knew the power of ceremony, and the clubs were no different. To the accompanying drums, he stepped out, head high.

Despite the rain - now shifting from a shower to a drizzle - Mauricio stood there, along with his team and his players in the middle of the pitch. Clapping when matters demanded, solemn as moods dictated, more by the celebrations of the crowd than the master of ceremonies as the proud, old ground wound down. 

Supporters clapping and swaying filled with the music of it, of a bittersweet goodbye. 

“It’s a fine old ground, eh?” Jesús observed, “I will miss it.”

Mauricio’s mouth twisted into a pout, as he thought of Wembley, and their hardship there this season. Looked around White Hart Lane, looked down the line of his players as they stood, clapping, and waving to the supporters. Looked out at the ground, the flags still waving, the voices still loud, the stadium still full in spite of the weather. 

“It is not for us to miss,” Mauricio said at last. “This is not our place.”

At Jesús’ raised eyebrows and dark eyes showing surprise, Mauricio shook his head and tittered. 

“The Supporters are the only ones who can afford to look backwards. They are the ones who create the stories, embroider the memories. They are the ones who create the myths and the songs-” Mauricio explained with feeling, as his eyes scanned the stadium, seeing an old man hugging his grandson in his arms, his rheumy eyes brimming with tears as he looked out at the ground over the child’s head tucked underneath his chin. 

Another snapshot, of the players breaking the line, strolling to the edges of the stadium near the stands, doing the traditional players’ parade on the green, clad in the navy tracksuits with ochre piping, walking _en masse_ with their families. Their stride slow and measured, as if a part of a procession during Holy Week. Harry with his daughter in his embrace, her cherub like face creasing with joy at the activity in front of her.

“Our job is only to look to the future, because this is football, eh?” Mauricio continued, as he fell into step with Jesús, listening to Toni speaking to Hugo a little distance behind them. With Hugo’s daughters his English steadier, confident and much more fluent. 

“ We are custodians for a brief while, and then we’ll leave because a manager has a sell by date with every club he’s at. We are no different or special. If we do well enough, we’ll be a lauded part of the history, and we can look back then. We might even be welcomed back, for another big occasion then, if they want us.”

Jesús narrowed his eyes, his mouth in a thoughtful line. The crowd refusing to budge, all the seats filled save the ones that had the Manchester United supporters, before they departed. They fell into step with the players as they moved around the field, and waved to the supporters. Jesús’ eyes crinkling with mischief as he said, “But they think you’re magic, you know.”

Mauricio smiled and shook his head, even as he held his hands up, waving to their supporters, his heart still full from the song the supporters finally saw fit to sing for him _Oh oh-oh he’s magic, you know... Mauricio Pochettino_ , the din still unabated. 

“When we get trophies, I’ll believe it, I might even accept it. For now, I’m a... what is that Disney film? _The Sorcerer's Apprentice_.”

***

Dele realised with a start, that this was the first time he’d officially be a part of the players’ parade.

Last season, with his three-match ban, he’d been prevented from wearing team colours. He’d flown back in from a few days holiday, clad in black and along with Mousa Dembele, standing on the sidelines clapping like everyone else. 

This year, he was on the green itself in the team colours, and it seemed extra special, knowing that this would be the last game on this pitch. _THE FINALE_ , the sign said. An oversized white advertising board with the cockerel done in a special way, sat atop the old gates, its body the colour of aged gold instead of navy blue. 

After he’d gifted his sneakers to an elderly fan, _I hope you enjoy them_ , Dele stepped away, half blushing and warm from the delighted surprise from the elderly fan. He walked on, falling into step with Tripps holding his baby boy, all round eyes and open mouth.

“Josh,” Dele waved at the cherub as if Josh had the coordination and strength to wave back. Joshua just shook his head, clinging to his dad like a limpet on a rock. 

“Say hi,” Tripps tried to raise his son’s hand for a wave. With a gurgling sound, Joshua turned his head away from Dele’s direction and buried it in the front of his father’s shirt. 

“Not today, eh?” Dele gently touched Josh’s arm with his finger.

“Sorry,” Tripps rolled his eyes. Not that Dele knew anything much about babies, but he’d heard enough from his teammates to know that they were as intractable and unpredictable as puppies. 

With a distracted half slap against Tripps’ shoulder, Dele moved away, seeing Pochettino greeting Harry with an arm around his shoulders, and a wave at Harry’s daughter with his free hand. Dele took out his phone, and started to take a few photos, absorbing the little details of the ground because it would be a full season before they returned - and it wouldn’t be the same as before. 

In the West Stand, some supporters still waving their flags, looking beyond the ground and seeing into the past. Others doing little things, like a girl taking off her glasses and wiping at her eyes, her fall of navy blue hair tumbling over her face and shoulders. 

Moussa and Toby laughing and walking, their hands filled with squirming kids. 

“It’s funny,” a voice said at his ear. “I’ve been here for three seasons, and I’ve had my heart broken at this ground dozens of times, but I’m gonna miss it.”

“Oh yeah?” Dele answered, slipping his phone into his pocket as they walked on. 

“Yeah,” Eric affirmed, “football will break your heart if you let it. But you let it, don’t you? Because you love it, you have no choice but to forgive, I guess.”

“I wish we weren’t leaving,” Dele admitted, “every final game, I’m just like - give us one more season. When you play here and you’re winning,” he paused in mid-stride, turned to Eric. Eric’s hair damp and darkened from the drizzle in the air, tiny beads of water at the tips of his sandy lashes. 

The stadium around them still a cacophony of noise, but when they were together, even in an activity as this, the world shuffled two steps to the right and let them be, gathering up the din and the people with it. 

“I can’t explain it. It’s like... adrenaline in your bloodstream, a contact high, when everything’s clicking and -”

“You just can’t lose,” Eric finished, as they shared a look. “Even when you’re losing, you just can’t lose. Dele -” he broke eye contact, dipping his head for a minute, wiping at his nose with his sleeve. “About the other night -”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dele waved the makings of an apology away because neither of them had been at their best. “We shat the bed that night, none of us would’ve been up for it, you know? But you dealt with it, in only the way you could.”

“But -”

“Everything else doesn’t matter,” Dele reached for Eric’s hand, threaded his fingers with Eric’s. Wordlessly, Eric squeezed their fingers together, the beginnings of a smile dancing at the edge of his lips. 

“We’ll make Wembley work,” Eric murmured, even though they both knew it was a prayer to some football gods at best, a feverish hope at the very least. Eric was an optimist in his own way. Never mind that he’d rage quit at times. Eric was the type to return to the table soon after rage quitting whatever messed up game scenario life threw at him. 

As a Spurs player, they bloody well seemed to battle a lot of them. Especially this season, and Eric came back every time. 

Dele looked around him, feeling the world at the edges starting to seep in. The flags, the noise, his teammates on the field... “I’ll miss this place,” he repeated, surprised at the pang of loss that tugged at him. He didn’t come up through the academy like Winksy or H- dyed in the wool Spurs fans before they had a choice in the matter. 

Nor was he Danny or Kyle who came from up North and stayed until they were a part of the furniture. 

Not even like Eric, who seemed to be able to dig himself deep into the spirit of the club, tapping up the qualities the supporters appreciated. Like... the bottle to go out to the press and make comment, even when he must have felt raw and wretched inside, but able to say the right things and do the right things - well- most of the time. 

A case in point, a few minutes ago. At the end of the ceremonies with them shoulder to shoulder, facing the crowd. Dele, still keyed up from the match they just played, as well as picking up on the emotions pumped into the air, making him jittery. For a laugh, he’d whipped out his phone and started an Insta story, with Eric as the subject. Eric up for it, not breaking form even as Dele made faces at him. Eric, clapping and not breaking into a smile, not saying a word, his eyes dark and staring right at him, right through him. 

Not even Pochettino, standing nearby with his thousand yard stare made Dele want to put the phone away, just to see if Eric would break down into giggles. 

Eric hadn’t done, the spoilsport. But, it was okay, because they were okay. 

Dele blinked away at the fine mist in the air. The rain now dissolved into a _mizzle_ , the natural equivalent of a humidifier - if it blew cool, brisk water droplets instead of moist air. Hungrily, Dele scanned the grounds, filing images away as if seeing it for the first time, but with the perspective of someone who’d grown up here in the two and a half seasons he’d been here. The old ground festooned with signs: TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR; TO DARE IS TO DO. 

 

Another song, with confetti twisting and twirling in the wind, a song to the ground and the spirit of Tottenham Hotspur itself around them. In a way, it felt as if they were at Mass, and doing the milling around and handshakes that you did after the solemnity of a service. 

“Come on,” Eric tugged at his hand as they fell into each other’s stride, smiling and greeting all and sundry on the pitch, including a few supporters who shouldn’t have been on the field. 

“I can only imagine how Harry feels,” Eric continued waving at the crowd with his free hand. “If we’re tearing up over this ground, he must be in bits.”

“Eric.”

“Yeah?”

“I -” Dele shook his head, it wasn’t the time. So he changed the subject. “Let’s go find Harry.”

***

Holding Ivy against his torso, Harry shuffled on slowly, like a child in a House of Wonders, not wanting to leave just yet.

Wanting to spread himself with something sticky like fat to soak up all the smells, the sights, the energies... an emotional _enfleurage_. To just scrape it off himself emotionally, and dump it into a jar, and whenever he wanted, he’d just smear it into his skin. Wherever he’d be down the road in terms of time and success, he’d be whisked right back to here. 

Everything, Harry wanted to take everything with him. 

Especially everything of today- when the supporters flooded the pitch after the match whistle blew, their mouths open and faces beaming with relief and joy. Harry hadn’t been scared of it at all, feeling himself being pitched forward and yanked back in currents of bodies around him. In a way, akin to being dumped in the cold drink, forcing you to take deep breaths to fight back the panic, before coming to your senses and somehow, enjoying the experience. 

Their hands ruffling his hair, patting his face, _He’s one of our own!_. Another experience to cling to, to raise his face to the sky, and not looking at the cranes with trepidation for what they represented, but what might come. 

Still. 

Harry looked at the pitch. This is where he experienced- you couldn’t say enjoyed- the North London Derby. The niggle (at best), the ugliness (at the very worst). Emotions thrumming through your entire body, dragging you to your primal essence. Form chucked out the window, giving yourself over to berserker rage. All that mattered was to lay siege to The Arsenal to claw and battle and spit for three precious points. If you could humiliate them, make their supporters cry in the stands and moan on Arsenal fan TV, it was a good day spent. 

This is where they - and at this Harry’s heart filled to bursting- beat Chelsea 5-3. Where Mourinho, stung by the decimation of his free flowing footballing experiment, retreated into his armadillo-like shell and stayed there ever since. 

_This is my club, my one and only club_ , Ledley - The King- said before slipping away into retirement, and Harry understood it more keenly now. It wasn’t just playing for it, the club's badge against a beating heart. It was refusing to be brought down by any loss, and sharing with the faithful every win. It was wanting glories - not only for yourself - but for the supporters too. A just reward for them making the pilgrimage here, no matter what. 

Ivy’s movement in his arms dragged him from his wool-gathering. “You like this, huh?” he cooed, holding his daughter close, his forehead resting against the fine silk threads of her hair. 

The noise she made - half amused or puzzled he was still working it out- made him laugh. 

“This is our pitch, Ivy,” he explained, turning her away from him so she could see everything. From the bright rainbow arced against the leaden sky, the crowds of people still there, still strong. “The original North London club, there’s only one Tottenham Hotspur.”

“Harry!” 

Harry looked up from the twisty kinetic bundle of baby in his arms, his face all smiles as he greeted his coach. 

“Gaffer.”

“Congratulate on your golden boot. Again,” Pochettino greeted him with a half hug, taking care to avoid crushing Ivy. “Ahh, Ivy!” Pochettino turned his attention from Harry to Ivy, his face wreathed in smiles, as Ivy babbled at him, before doing that gurgle of joy that only babies could do. “ _Como esta, mi _Princessa_?” _

__

__

Ivy babbled again, with Pochettino stooping lower, hand at his ear as if she was giving him a really important message. “Ah,” Pochettino nodded solemnly, “I will tell him.” 

Amused, Harry watched as his manager straightened up, and pointed a finger in his direction. “She says you need some rest and congratulate on the golden boot again.” 

Harry’s spirits dimmed a little. It was nice winning the golden boot but, if he’d wanted individual trophies, he would have chucked this football in, and focused on getting up to scratch. 

Pochettino must have read the story of self-recrimination that flickered across his features because he gave Harry one of those light taps on the cheek. “ _Animo_. Next season, we go again, no? Just a bit more clever next time.” 

Why not? Harry let himself dream. Under Pochettino they were getting better, why no- the thought dissolved at the chants of _When The Spurs..._ kicked in and he half wished that he could stay on the pitch forever, instead of time and life dragging him towards the future. To be on the same pitch with Hoddle, Ardiles, Keane, Villa--- and to hear his name being sung out in the stadium, nothing like this. 

“Ah,” Pochettino smiled, ready to say something more, but interrupted by a stream of Spanish. Jesús walking across the green towards them, with Miki at his side. “ _Tenemos que tomar fot_ -” Jesús started, stopped to smile at Harry and wave at Ivy. “ Perdón, Harry, I have to steal Mauricio from you,” he pressed his palms together, as if in prayer. 

“It’s fine,” Harry smiled, rocking his daughter to and fro, before falling into step with Christian. Normally, Harry would have been startled to be caught off guard with Christian stepping almost into his path; but today felt like an extended dream, with people slipping in and out of the margins of reality into sharp focus like Christian did. 

“I’ll miss this place,” Christian observed in that understated way of his, calm in the face of the emotion that moved Harry to no end. “I can only imagine what you feel about it.” 

“It’s amazing, I’m still buzzing. I’ll be upset about it tomorrow, I’m sure. Crying like Ivy,” Harry laughed self-consciously. “The new stadium will be great, but-” 

“There’s this saying in Danish,” Christian frowned, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. “It sounds strange in English. _He who would leap high must take a long run_. We’re just ... taking a long run.” 

When you put it like that, it made sense, and if one of Harry’s arms had been free, he would have drawn Christian in for a hug. But because they weren’t, he smiled at his friend. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, “just a long run.” 

***

In the end, they didn’t find Harry.

Correction. 

In the end, they didn’t look for Harry. 

Yeah, that was it. 

Not Dele minded, as such. He and Eric pretty much hung out together, which made the interviews on Spurs TV less tedious, less of an ordeal. 

“Yeah, you know, we came second, and we are proud of that, but we hope to do better next season.”

Talking to the interviewer, Dele realised, it wasn’t the interview or the process that got on his nerves. He’d been around for two seasons now and knew the drill. Also, he didn’t mind speaking as long as he could avoid certain subjects, and post-mortems about their games weren't one of them. 

It was the fact that they came second. That for all their hard work, they had nothing to show for it, but well-meaning newspaper articles. That - 

“Eric.”

“Hmmm?” Eric leant closer, swaying into Dele’s space because the crowd were now launching into _I Can’t Smile Without You_. 

“I -”

“Dele! Eric!” Kevin called, loping towards them with Sonny hot on his heels, both brandishing their phones. 

“Come _on_ ,” Sonny grinned. It felt like the end of a school year, that odd mixture of freedom and sadness. Freedom not to think about football for the while, sadness that they didn’t win a trophy, and rocking back up in the new season to find people gone. Especially since, Dele knew, players tended to leave or arrive in the transfer window. Come late July, early August for preseason, there’d be new faces to meet, old faces at other clubs, rocking their jerseys on social media. 

Once you brandished a phone camera, people just showed up. Just popped into view like lint on a black shirt on the night you wanted to wear it out. This was no different, with Sissoko, Kevin, Vincent and Hugo jostling in the frame. Sonny raised his phone over his head, tilting it to and fro, trying for the best angle.

“Closer! Closer!” Sonny ordered, shifting to the balls of his feet because the club stewards warned against taking selfie sticks out onto the pitch. Dele slinging an arm around Eric’s shoulders, their heads pressed together for Sonny’s perfect picture. Eric’s hair still damp from the drizzle, his body hard and warm. Their faces beaming in the camera. The songs winding down now, because happiness never stayed around long enough. 

A sharp series of clicks, before the group broke apart. 

“Sorry about that,” Eric said after everyone else drifted off, moving towards the tunnel where they’d disappear into the changing room. Winksy and Josh ambled past, Josh wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. Another Spurs academy lad touched by the whole spectacle. 

“Sorry about what?”

“You’ve been trying to say something and we keep getting interrupted,” Eric pointed out, and Dele looked away from Josh and Winksy. The mood around Eric a lot lighter, less resigned to the matter of them losing the title to Chelsea and more at peace with the aftermath. Eric slipped his hands into the pockets of his training top and faced Dele. 

“This mightn’t be the last club we’re a-at,” Dele stumbled for words, caught off guard by the intensity of Eric’s stare. “It might not even be the ‘my only club’ bit H goes on about, but -” he gestured with his hands, taking all of this in. “It’s a special club, and whatever happens-” the corners of his mouth turned up at this, “I’m glad we met. I hope... I hope we never lose each other.”

Eric didn’t say a word. 

Torn between disappointment and surprise, Dele rubbed at the nape of his neck. Not that he expected Eric to - he didn’t know what he expected. 

“I need to go find Harry, and his golden bo -” Dele cut himself off, as he turned on his heel and half jogged away, feeling his face heat even with the cool mist against his cheeks.

***

Dele didn’t get around to finding Harry after all. He’d already left, with about ninety-five percent of everyone else. They’d peeled off home with their families, still keeping ‘office hours’, their holidays delayed due to their club commitments in Hong Kong next week.

“Ivy was acting up,” Ben explained, as he tugged his shirt over his head. They were in the changing room, Ben shucking off his team gear and changing into street clothes. “I guess she needed a nap?”

It made sense. Harry explained Ivy’s need to nap being the same as a footballer’s need to rest and recuperate, except footballers didn’t cry when their sleep schedule went tits up. Wait, no, Danny did. 

“Was it important?” Ben asked, in that musical lilting way only the Welsh accent could do. 

“No,” Dele waved it away, as he shrugged into his lightweight windproof, and grabbed his backpack from his locker. “I just wanted to congratulate him on winning the golden boot.”

“Jealous?”

“I’m a midfielder, mate,” Dele said as he rummaged through his assigned locker for his slingback. Harry’s achievement was his, and his alone. Beside, everyone knew that Harry would have given up the boot for a team trophy this season, so... “It’s fine, I’ll send him a message.”

“No worries,” Ben replied. “Later.”

“Yeah, mate, later,” Dele mumbled his goodbyes, as he leant in further, half feeling around the stuff in his locker. You’d have thought that with such a relatively small area, stuff would be easier to find. Dele scowled, because he _really_ liked that snapback. It just fit really well. Not too tight around the forehead and didn't fly off at the least movement, and oh, _sod it_. His jewellery including a watch that shone dully in the gloom, sure. But a black slingback in a relatively dark locker space... 

“I keep telling you, you need to put a light in that thing.”

Dele almost beheaded himself as he jerked at the voice, head hitting against the interior side of his locker. “ _Shit!_ ” he swore vehemently, massaging his temple with his index and forefingers. 

“Sorry,” Eric’s eyes widened in apology.

“It’s fine,” Dele stepped back from his locker and glared at it as if the locker were sentient enough to have a bit of shame and cough up Dele’s favourite black slingback with the embossed Adidas stripes. “I was just about to leave anyway,” he scratched at the nape of his neck with his fingers. Thought about his cap again. Glared at his open locker again for good measure. Still... nope. 

“I’m glad that you’re still here,” Eric stepped forward, still in his Spurs get up from their time on the pitch saying goodbye to the Lane. 

“Right,” Dele said, giving up on finding his favourite slingback and closing the locker with a sharp click. That would have to wait for another day. 

“Seriously,” Eric said, before slipping his hands in the pockets of his track bottoms and rocking back on his heels. His eyes scanned the room they were standing in, his features softening with an expression Dele couldn’t put his finger on. Their changing room - for a top club in London- was small. 

Outside of the dressing area with the team shirts and shoes set out like you saw in the photos, the changing room was fairly small. Overhead lights illuminating the space, with a wall of assigned lockers, and low-lying benches for players to put sit down and put their shoes on comfortably. 

“I’ll miss this place,” Eric said, “I mean, I know when it’s finished everything is supposed to be bigger, and better but -” 

“It’s the Lane,” Dele finished, finding his keys in the front pocket of his backpack and holding them in his hand. Well, at least the black hole of his locker hadn’t swallowed the car key fob. That would have been a nightmare, not as ‘mare like as being left twisting in the wind waiting for a response from Eric on the pitch, but that was Eric’s problem, not his. Slinging a strap of his bag over his shoulder, Dele made to move off, departing with a chirpy, “Right, I have plans, so -”

“Dele, wait.”

Dele’s fingers tightened around the fob, and didn’t he half wish for his snapback now. Lower the brim over his face, and stroll out, as cool as anything. As he turned around, seeing Eric's face, he knew that at this point in time, Eric wasn’t someone that he’d walk out on.

“You’ve always been... quick,” Eric’s hands out of his pockets now, in front of him like a supplication, “from the start, I think.”

“I - don’t understand,” Dele frowned. 

“It’s going to sound stupid,” Eric answered with a wry twist of his lips.

“I know,” Dele encouraged, slipping his car fob into his pocket. “But say it anyway.”

“I know you’re going to leave,” Eric rolled his shoulders. “It’s football, and that’s how the story goes. The better you play, the more likely it is that you go to bigger clubs, we came in for you, didn’t we? Spurs came in for me, too. It is what it is. I mean, even Harry. You’ve seen him, you’ve heard him. He wants trophies, he wants to win things at the end of it. The fact that we’ve worked so hard-” the deepening flush on Eric’s cheeks betrayed his feelings more than his voice did. “I think-” Eric started again, the blue of his eyes darkening with emotion, “I think this team is special, and I do want us to win something before we break up the band, you know?”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want to be at the end of next season thinking that we blew it again. And with us at Wembley, I’m afraid of it going tits up. There are so many things I want us to share but another season like this will kill us. It would make you leave.”

_Oh._

Dele’s bag slid from his shoulder and fell to the ground with a thump. "Eric-" 

“Don’t lie,” Eric pleaded with a shake of his head, “if you go searching for trophies elsewhere, it would probably force me to leave too.” With a sigh, Eric leant against the small space of the wall that wasn’t blocked by a bench. Centimetre by centimetre, he slid against the wall, legs buckling under his weight, until he sat on the floor, his legs outstretched in front of him like an abandoned toy. After a short silence, Eric raised his face to Dele’s, his eyes glassy with emotion. “That’s a bit of a shit thing to say, isn’t it?”

“No,” Dele shook his head, closing the distance between them as he dropped beside Eric. Space a tight squeeze because the benches were heavy to shift. With a sigh, he slipped an arm around Eric’s shoulders, shutting his eyes briefly feeling the weight of Eric’s head on his shoulder. “It’s not a shitty thing to say at all.”

It had been two minutes since they last spoke. Dele knew this because he’d been counting the seconds, his wrist watch marking the passage of time in the empty locker room - save them - with a distinct _tick tick_. His abandoned backpack in the middle of the room, aways from them. He should move and get it, health and safety hazard and all, but he felt too comfortable to move, even sitting on the hard, cold floor, Eric's body against his.

“Dele?”

“Hmm.” 

“I have to tell you something.”

“It’s fine,” Dele waved it away because it didn't matter now. “I said what I said on the field because I wanted to, you don’t have to feel -”

“Oh no, it’s not that. You already know how I feel,” Eric murmured against Dele’s neck, his scruff tickling Dele's skin. "Or, you _ought to_. Whatever happens going forward, we'll stay together."

"Oh?" Dele raised an eyebrow, marvelling at how matter of fact Eric could be in the matter of them. All them knots Dele twisted himself into, wondering if he said the wrong thing, but realising that he'd just been saying the bleeding obvious. 

Well, okay. 

"So what's the secret that's been weighing heavy on your heart, then?" he asked, his thumb stroking Eric's shoulder.

“The snapback you’ve been looking for for _ages_? You left it by mine.”

Dele made to draw back, but Eric wasn’t having it, his fingers tightening in the fabric of Dele’s windproof. “Don’t move, or I’ll give it to my dogs.”

“Juan and Boy?”

“You need to stop taking the piss and learn their names, _honestly_.”

“You shouldn’t be lecturing me, mate. Stealing _and_ blackmail?” Dele shook his head, sputtering into laughter. “The state of you, Eric. You’re a disgrace. You need to have a talk with yourself.”

Eric laughed, his breath warm and tickly against Dele’s neck. He lifted his head, and they were right there, their faces close but not touching. Eric's stare now familiar, because he'd seen it on the field earlier through the screen of his phone, and he now knew what it meant. Dele couldn’t say a word, his throat suddenly dry when Eric’s fingers touched his cheek. He felt the slight tremor from Eric’s fingers, and needing no encouragement, leant in. The first brush, awkward, missing Eric’s lips by a mile, his scruff not as ticklish as it felt against his neck. They'd done this before, so it wasn't a shock, but this time felt quite different, somehow. The second time, with Eric’s huff of laughter fizzing like bubbles on his tongue, Dele knew why. His hand in Eric's hair, he angled his face to deepen their kiss, his body shuddering with the pleasure of it, because yeah, it was pretty much like magic. 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

>   * A lot of the fic centres around [this day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mb8BgkIMh2I&t=94s). The last day at the Spurs' stadium. They'll be playing at Wembley for the 2017/18 season whilst the original stadium is being knocked down and expanded.
>   * Tottenham Hotspur are leaving their stadium for a year [CLUB ANNOUNCEMENT – 2017/18 SEASON AT WEMBLEY CONFIRMED](http://m.tottenhamhotspur.com/news/club-announcement-%E2%80%93-2017/18-season-at-wembley-confirmed-280417/)
>   * Tottenham Hotspur 2-1 Manchester United: Spurs say goodbye to White Hart Lane with win in final match [The match they played that day](http://www.guardian-series.co.uk/sport/15285429.Spurs_say_goodbye_to_The_Lane_with_win_over_United/)
> 



End file.
